The
Power of Words
by
Karen Fisher-Alaniz
I always knew that my father had been in a war. But as a child
it was of little importance to me. I had bicycles to ride, friends
to play with and trees to climb.
Stationed at Pearl Harbor after its bombing, his days were
spent working in an office. On liberty he went to movies or exploring
with friends. These were the stories he told.
He came home to marry, and have three daughters. And I was
daddy's girl. He was always beside me. No shadow and no silhouette.
I always knew I could sneak my tiny hand in his and we'd walk,
we two, in a timeless space where everything was as it was.
I first noticed a change as he neared his eightieth birthday.
A dense ocean fog settled. I reached for his hand, but it was
beyond my grasp. He read graphic WWII novels and history books.
When he began reading Tom Brokaw's, The Greatest Generation
Speaks, I bought a copy too, hoping for an answer.
I began asking questions, "Daddy, what did you do in the war?"
"Oh a lot of stuff," he'd reply.
"Like what?"
"Oh, typing and such."
Then over lunch one day he talked about how he broke the Japanese
Katakana Code. He took a napkin from its silver holder and began
writing symbols and letters, explaining what each meant, in stunning
detail. Week by week, month by month we talked.
Then one day the phone rang. It was my mom. "Your dad had some
kind of a breakdown." My heart sank. I felt ill. "We were sitting
in the car at the grocery store," she continued. "I had been
talking about my concern for a dear friend. 'Now, Murray, you
understand to keep this in the strictest of confidence.'"
"Secret!" he yelled, startling her. "You don't think I can
keep a secret? I've kept a secret for fifty-seven years. And
you don't think I can keep a secret?" His anger dissolved to
tears.
Off of Okinawa the submarine surfaced. My father and his friend
Mal, sat on wooden crates strapped to railings behind them. Kamikazi's
littered the sky. For security purposes, every ten minutes they
unstrapped and exchanged seats. After the first exchange, Dad
had just buckled in when a kamakazi hit close and shrapnel flew.
In the chaos that followed, he turned to his friend. He was severely
wounded. Dad held his dying friend in his arms. "Oh, Murray," were
his last words. In the mind numbing scene that followed he couldn't
let go of his friend. His hands clenched tight to him until someone
pried them open. He couldn't leave his friend. But he did, awakening
in a military hospital some time later. This was the secret he
kept.
Dad and I continued to talk about his wartime experiences.
We didn't talk about Okinawa. It was a wordless vow. Occasionally,
a distant gaze, a downward bow of his head and I knew. He remembered.
And for just a moment, the reality of today pushed aside for
quiet deep grief.
Flashbacks and nightmares haunted him. For fifty-seven years,
his mind was protected. Now there wasn't a dressing large enough
for this deep wound. And no one could help. My mother got down
on her knees every morning, praying for peace to return to him.
Sitting on the sofa one autumn afternoon, he handed me The
Greatest Generation Speaks. A yellow sticky note marked
page seventy-eight. "The first paragraph."
Most of those who survived know it was simply fate
that saved them. Their buddies a few feet to the left and to
the right were fatally wounded. The survivors carry that with
them to this day; they are still asking, "Why did I survive?" Every
day and every opportunity is a dividend their fallen comrades
never realized. One man wrote to me about his father, a World
War II combat veteran who had lost many young friends in battle.
Recalling those who didn't live beyond their twenties, the dying
man said to his son, "Don't sing any sad songs for me, boy. I've
had my life. I've seen my grandchildren. Don't sing any sad songs
for me.
I stared at the page, absorbing the words. "This is how you feel?" He
nodded ever so slightly.
The power of the written word. That short paragraph gave words
to my dad's feelings, words to his ache.
Finally the fog began to lift. And deeply, quietly I slipped
my hand into his.
|
Don't Miss
